Musings of a Middle-Aged Man Nothing Beats the Beach

Thursday

Apr 25, 2013 at 3:15 AM

By Gary SpragueSanford News Guest Columnist

Winter is finally over. The birds are singing, flowers are blooming, and the temperature is rising. It’s once again time to start thinking about going to the greatest place on earth. No, not Disney World. The place I’m talking about is open twenty-four hours a day and doesn’t cost a month’s salary to visit. Yes, I’m talking about the beach.

There is nothing quite like visiting the beach. First, the smell. It’s not a unique smell. Consider this — if you were riding down the highway with your family or friends and the car was suddenly filled with that very same odor, you would quickly open your window, gulp fresh air, and glare accusingly at every other person in the vehicle. Yet somehow, this same smell near the ocean is more pleasant than a bouquet of fresh flowers. We inhale deeply, smiling as we fill our lungs. We can’t get enough. It’s almost magical how, though the invigorating smell of the beach is so similar to the lewd stench of the car after a family trip to Florida, we fail to associate one with the other. This is part of the wonder of the beach.

Then there is the sand. Most of Maine’s beaches have silky white sand. Absolutely beautiful. But has there ever been as adhesive a substance as beach sand? The stuff sticks to everything — skin, clothing, furniture. It especially likes creases and crevices. As I get older, beach sand keeps discovering new and exciting places to hide on me. I imagine by the time I’m eighty, I’ll still be shaking out sand a week after visiting the beach.

When I think of my childhood, some of my best memories are from the beach. My grandparents had a cottage at Wells Beach. That is where I learned to tie my shoes. It’s where I learned to play cribbage. It’s where my brother and I had mud fights by the water’s edge, which were only dangerous if the adults caught us. I spent many hours walking the beach, exploring the rocks and puddles and tiny sea creatures within. And the beach is where I discovered that a bologna and cheese sandwich made by my grandmother was the best sandwich I’d ever have in my life.

My family and I usually prefer going to the beach around late afternoon and early evening. It’s less crowded, so the kids can run and play without kicking sand on someone who may wish to take out his anger on the innocent dad. We usually start going to the beach around April. It’s like a shot of adrenaline after the long gray winter. One year it was very cold out, but that did not stop my oldest son — he went in the water wearing his snowsuit. I’m not sure if allowing that makes us bad parents, but if it does, it was my wife’s fault. My son is a teenager now, in high school, and too cool to go to the beach with his family anymore. Sometimes we make him go, though, if for no other reason than to annoy him. It’s what families do.

Some people don’t care for the beach. That is understandable. The polar ice caps are warmer than Maine’s ocean water in July. After a day at the beach, you’ll track sand to your vehicle and all through your house, and just when you think you have it all cleaned up, you’ll find a little more. You’ll finally be rid of it all after approximately four months.

And then there are our Canadian neighbors who visit Maine’s beaches every summer. What can be said about them except Speedos are not designed for seventy-year-old men.

The beach is still my favorite place, even with the sticky sand, the bone-numbing water, and the ill-fitting bathing suits. And really, after the winter we just had, I’d take seeing an elderly Canadian in a Speedo over shoveling a foot of snow anytime.

Gary Sprague is a writer who lives in Sanford. He can be reached at garysprague2000@yahoo.com.